


Chase Me, Catch Me

by JaqRabbit



Category: One Piece
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Detectives, F/M, Murder, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 09:13:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6000325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaqRabbit/pseuds/JaqRabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Whitechapel London, 1888.</p><p>Mass hysteria rules the streets as women of the night are murdered left and right by none other then Jack the Ripper.</p><p>A man from Scotland Yard has been sent to investigate, but he can't seem to get any work done when there's a nosy reporter snooping about...</p><p>Detective!Smoker x Reader</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chase Me, Catch Me

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentines Day...?
> 
> This idea wouldn't go away, so, here's a mini-series~!
> 
> This case is very real, but the historical events will be altered slightly for my amusement.

The day was August 7th, 1888.  
  
Our story takes place in Whitechapel London, where gas lamp lit streets and foggy dark alleys didn’t offer the residents too much encouragement in which to lead their lives. The area was practically bathing in poverty and disease and one had to fight to survive every single day.  Growing up in this part of London offered a challenge in itself; it's cesspool of crime an unwelcome environment for children who were mostly ignored or abandoned because of financial reasons, most never making it to adulthood.  It was a breeding ground for crime and poor habits, including violence, prostitution and murder.  
  
The starving, penniless inhabitants had it no better inside their homes as they did on the streets; uninviting and overcrowded with upwards to nine people living in just one room.  Many were makeshift brothels and offered a bed to those wishing to escape and make a living (a dangerous trade in any day and age).    
  
It was the early morning, possibly around 5:00am.  The weather was just a bit nippy and would probably peak around 18°C (64°F for all you silly Americans).  Summer was finally coming to a close and autumn was upon the great city of London and dock laborer, John Saunders Reeves, was coming down the dimly lit stairs of his home to head out for work.  
  
He was tired, so tired that he almost tripped over the woman laying on the very stairs he was descending.  He cursed at her and was tempted to spit (but he had some class, by god) and decided to nudge her with his foot instead.  
  
"Oi!  Get up, you vagrant!"  He nudged her again when she didn't respond, just barely able to see that she looked a bit familiar.  She was about five foot three, with dark hair held up in a messy bun, and slightly on the large size.  Normally, John Saunders Reeves didn't pay much attention to people, he was just a working class stiff trying to get by; but he recognized this woman as an unfortunate, or a street walker.  They owned only what they wore and what they carried in their pockets, their deeds paying for their bed for the night; it was what women, who were far down on their luck, would resort to in this part of London.    
  
He would have felt sorry for her, possibly passed out drunk on his steps, if she hadn't snubbed him just the week before.  This woman had called him gutless and 'small' and refused any sort of service.  He held no sympathy for the drunken mistress and nudged her again with the tip of his boot, but _harder_.  
  
"Bloody wench, get up!!  I won't have you clogging up my stoop!!"    
  
She didn't move and he leaned in closer, noticing a disgusting smell coming off her.  Now, it was no surprise that Whitechapel was rancid with sewage, trash, sweat, and coal - but this was a different smell.  This was something...different.  He wished he had a light, then perhaps he could see her face, perhaps sneer at it and laugh at her sordid appearance.  
  
But all thoughts of cursing and taunting were quickly dashed from his mind.  He became incredibly pale at the sight before him and stumbled back into the railing, gripping it so hard that his knuckles grew white.  
  
"M-Murder!!  Murder!!"  
  
He stumbled down the stairs, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight as the sky grew slightly brighter by the minute.  It was obvious now that she had been killed, John was surprised he hadn't noticed it before.  She had been stabbed in the body and neck multiple times and her lower half was in some sort of sexual position, exposed with blood dripping down the stairs and onto the very street.  He was close to throwing up but quickly pushed it away as he went in search of someone for help.  Anyone who could make him forget what he'd just seen.  
  
It was supposed to be a lovely day of August 7th, 1888.  It would probably be the last lovely day of this year for a long, long time.  Not when there was a dead body laying on the stairs of some rundown apartment in George Yard.  
  
Not when there was a killer on the loose.  
  
  
  
"She's been dead for about three hours," A voice rang over the small crowd of constables surrounding the scene.  Around them, and being pushed back to keep a parameter, was a large crowd of people who also lived in Whitechapel.  They were curious, having heard there'd been a murder most foul in their neighborhood and had come to see since they had nothing better to do.  
  
You had something better to do though.    
  
That involved squeezing your way through the crowd, ignoring the insults hurled at you as you stepped on many feet and glared at many a cove who dared to try and block your path.  
  
You may be wearing a dress, but your boots were just as useful as a weapon and your legs had proven time and time again just how strong you were.  Some of these people recognized you and grinned, pointing and whispering when you daringly crossed the police line and headed straight for a man in a black uniform.  You pulled out your little notebook, fixed your hair a bit and quickly started to take notes of the scene before, careful to include every detail.  
  
"What's going on?"  
  
The man didn't look at you, his fatigued eyes staring at his coworkers who were blocking the gruesome sight from the public.  All that could be seen was a puddle of blood that had made it's way down the stairs, but it only served to pique interest then deter civilians from trying to get a look.  
  
"Some poor sod was stabbed last night.  Wasn't found until this morning," He scratched the back of his head, looking tired.  
  
"Oh?"  You wrote this down, keen to find out more.  
  
"Apparently she was killed hours ago, but residents thought she was just sleeping on the stairs," The burly man grumbled, his mustache twitching this way and that.  "A woman around here even heard the cries of murder around the time it was happening, but you know this end of town...someone is always screaming about murders, thieves, and fires."  
  
He sighed and turned to look at you, only to pale, realizing you weren't one of his colleagues.    
  
"You!?!"  
  
You grinned, continuing to write despite the man finally realizing your identity.  "That's most helpful, do you know how many times she was stabbed?  And where?"  
  
He grabbed your arm and scowled, "How many times do I have to tell you not to stick your nose in police business!!?"  
  
Rolling your eyes, you let the man lead you back towards the crowd.  "Garp.  You know you can't keep me from the truth.  The readers have to know-"  
  
He scowled, "You still ranting about that two-bit rag of yours?  No one wants to read a paper written and run solely by a woman!!"  
  
"I also publish it, thank you very much!"  You puffed your cheeks, now deciding to drag your feet a bit to make it harder on your 'friend'.  
  
"You shouldn't even be in this part of London!!  Hasn't your family taught you better-"  
  
"I am a grown woman, I am allowed to go where I please."  
  
"Your father didn't give you a proper spanking as a child," He muttered, finally able to drag you into the crowd where he was suddenly bombarded with questions.  
  
"What happened?!"  
  
"Are they dead???"  
  
"When will it be cleaned up?  I'd like to go home!"  
  
"Deserved it I bet, walking these streets at night.  Damned dangerous, I say!"  
  
Monkey D. Garp looked frazzled for a moment, his hold still on your arm as he looked to and fro at each person who asked questions about the case.  
  
"Listen people!  You just go about your business and let the Whitechapel Police handle this!"  
  
"Is this gang violence?!  I heard some unfortunate was attacked back in April and died!"  
  
A woman in rags gasped at the statement, "No no!  It must be the foreigners - only they could be so foul as to take another person's life!"  
  
This caused the crowd to go into a frenzy, half of them immigrants themselves and spitting with rage at the suggestion that they would be depraved enough to kill someone.  You quickly realized that this would possibly turn ugly and looked at Garp who was thinking the same.  He let go of your arm and leapt into action before a punch could be thrown, yelling at the crowd to shut up and to get lost.  But of course, this only made it worse, and soon the people were pushing and snarling at one another.  
  
You took this chance to sneak away and back towards the crime scene, leaving poor Garp to deal with desperate people who got into fights almost every day of their lives...  
  
Despite being the 'gentler gender', you had the guts to comb all over London for any news story you could get your greedy, little hands on.  Whether it was some thieving mastermind who stole wallets and jewelry, a rampaging drunk who stalked the streets to beat up civilians, or even a murderer - you'd be there to get the story.  Your dream was to be a reporter.  A _real_  reporter.  One who was respected and congratulated for getting the facts and providing the truth for the people of London.  
  
Oddly enough, your family supported you.  There were no snide comments about how a woman couldn't and shouldn't work, no insults of how you should be married and stay at home, no urgings to have a baby.  As an only child, you were loved and supported all the way.  You were doted on, spoiled, and allowed to do the craziest of things growing up.  Whether you decided to dress as a man to entertain your friends at parties, or going on a random trip to Paris to learn to dance like the women of Burlesque shows; you could do no wrong in your parents eyes.  Of course, you've done a lot of stupid things in your lifetime, but you learned and grew.  Somewhere along the way, you found yourself loving the stories you heard and sharing them with the people around you.  You realized it truly affected people and their everyday lives and you believed this was your true purpose in life.  
  
This belief formed you into who you were today, a gutsy woman who ran the streets with just a notebook and a nose for news.  Most the time you couldn't sell a paper, but that didn't stop you from working hard on each issue of your 'two-bit rag'.  Each time you smelled the freshly printed ink, you couldn't help but smile in pride.  This was your baby, your life, your calling.  
  
Nothing was going to stop you from continuing.  
  
Whitechapel was always the best place to score a story.  Even if it didn't interest the people of your part of town, it interested you.  These were the real people of London, the underbelly that ran the streets and fought hard to survive.  These people spoke to you on a strange level, you wanted to help them, be there for them.  You were even friends with a few of the prostitutes around town (they were always happy to share the latest rumor).  What better way to help then to tell them what was happening in their part of the city?  
  
You had been walking the streets early that morning, hoping to find some information on possible gang violence when your good friend and source of information, Mary Kelly, tipped you off to a murder in George Yard.  Taking flight, you ran all the way here to get the story, eyes lit with eager anticipation and fingers twitching in readiness.  
  
Blood wasn't anything new to you, so you had been sure you could handle any scene you'd come upon.  You'd once saw a man lying in a ditch with his head bashed in by some blunt object, so you were sure you could handle a stabbing case.  Though, it didn't appear you'd get to see this one with the way the police were blocking the scene.  
  
You stealthily moved in, sidling against one of the brick walls and trying to look nonchalant while making sure none of the other patrolmen noticed you, you readied your pen and strained to listen.  
  
"-damn mess."  
  
"Dr. Killeen says she was stabbed over thirty times.  Poor lass..."  
  
"How are we supposed to move the body?"  One of the men asked, sounding a bit sick.  He moved slightly and you had a chance to catch a small glimpse of a limp, bare leg laying on the steps, but it was blocked again when the officer moved back to his position.  
  
"I'm not sure...I don't even want to touch her, to be honest."  
  
"Someone must have had it out for her, got her all over the place."  
  
You tried to hear a bit more, moving just a step closer and pressing your back harder against the wall as you scribbled away.  
  
"Stabbed in the neck, stomach, uh...down..."  He coughed, "Down there..."  
  
Your eyes lit up in interest, never hearing of such a violent killing.  Your pen flew across the paper before you became bold enough to move closer, but was stopped when a familiar hand gripped your arm and dragged you away from the crime.  You looked up and struggled as Garp glared at you.  
  
"Woman, I swear to all that's holy-"  
  
"I was about to hear the good part!!"  
  
"There is no good part!"  He snarled, giving your arm a light shake as he took you down the street where the crowd had dispersed a little.  "A woman is dead and you should be at home where it's safe!"  
  
"Garp.  I have to find out what happened, if you'd just tell me-"  
  
He snorted, "Now why would I do that?"  
  
"I'm the press, the people have the right to know!!"  
  
Garp snorted again, looking amused.  "Sorry, love.  Can't give you anything, even if I wanted to.  Scotland Yard has been called in for this."  
  
You perked up, eyes wide at the mention of greater London Police Force.  "Is it really that serious?"  
  
Garp grinned and lightly pushed you towards the main street, "Can't say.  But they're sending over a Detective to help with the case."  
  
A detective?  For **Whitechapel**?  
  
"Who?"  
  
But Garp ignored you, turning back to go to work and probably intent on telling his buddies to keep an eye out for a nosy woman and her notebook.  But you weren't going back to the scene, you knew when to search for clues somewhere else.  
  
And right now, you were curious about this detective Scotland Yard was dispatching for the poor community of London.


End file.
